


No Escape From The Past

by Anonymous



Series: Wherever you go [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Poor Bucky, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), like a recovery fic but backward, no goats were harmed in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 17:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15344397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: For the prompt: "What if Bucky's post-Civil War recovery in Wakanda was HYDRA's plan all along? What if HYDRA agents were watching from the shadows all the time, letting trigger word-free Bucky work thru most of his trauma, recover and live his best life on a farm in Wakanda. And just when everything is Coming Up Milhouse, Buck has his man with him and he's finally feeling like a person again, old friends pay him a visit."(aka let's torture Bucky some more because he clearly hasn't had enough)





	1. Chapter 1

It has to be a nightmare.   
  
Bucky wakes up to loud rain outside and a sharp wet smell and a deep, painful heaviness all through his body. The light is dim inside the small hut where he sleeps alone almost every night, but it’s not as dark as it should be—Bucky can see the two figures above him as they lift him up from the warm bed, as they draw the covers off him and pull him upright, the one on his left taking most of his weight.  
  
His head is sluggish, too heavy like the rest of his body to form real thoughts, but he knows who these people must be, because that’s the way it is and believing differently has never gotten him anywhere.  
  
He still fights, of course, because that’s what he has done ever since he escaped, but that’s when he realizes that it has to be a nightmare: his movements are slow and weak and uncoordinated, as if his body is still fighting for air after being underwater for too long. He kicks, tries to headbutt, even tries to bite at the larger figure to his left, but the people on either side of him barely even react. One has him by the top part of his right arm, their skin cool and damp; the other tries and fails to get a good grip on the truncated remains of his other arm and, huffing with frustration when that doesn’t work, grabs his hair instead.   
  
Together, they drag him off the edge of his low bed and onto the floor at the end of it, still upright and kneeling. The floor’s surface is smooth and cold under his knees. The air is cold on his skin. He can still hear the rain outside, hear it hitting the roof.  
  
Bucky looks up, because now he can see where the light is coming from: another man is standing just inside the low door to the hut, holding what must be a rifle with a tactical light attached. The light coming from it seems too muted, like they’ve covered it with something or tampered with it to avoid drawing attention in the darkness. They shouldn’t have bothered: there is no one else around.   
  
Despite the tampering, it’s light enough that he can look down and see himself, see his bare skin, his own hand as he tries and fails to make a fist.  
  
“Soldier,” a voice says.  
  
Bucky tries to move again, jerking himself to one side in an effort to throw a punch, and enough fresh memories have already risen to the surface enough for him to expect a blow or a blast of electricity as punishment. But it doesn’t come, and instead he hears somebody laughing.   
  
He sees now that the man with the gun is just a precaution: Whatever they have done to him, whatever drug they’ve put in his system while he slept, has made him too little of a threat to be worth punishing, and even though his brain feels as dull and heavy as his body, it’s enough to make his cheeks burn.   
  
He tries again, regardless, lurching foolishly like he’s drunk, failing to even dislodge the man’s grip on his hair, and there’s more laughter. The light coming from in front of the door trembles: even the man with the gun has joined in.  
  
It has to be a nightmare, he thinks, because if it’s not a nightmare it means that all of his fighting has once again been for nothing.   
  
A very small shudder goes through him.  
  
Someone grabs his chin, then, and squats down next to him on his right side—his remaining arm is clearly not even considered a threat—and he sees that unlike the very large figure still at his left, this one is female. Her face is familiar, and it should be because there never were many female HYDRA agents after they moved him to America, but he can’t retrieve those memories, can’t get anything but an even heavier sense of dread. Her hair is dark, short, still wet from the rain outside. She is dressed in black like the others.  
  
It should be nothing, not on top of everything else, but he is suddenly more aware of his own nudity. He sleeps without clothes even though it gets so cool at night at this time of year, because everything he wears at night just gets soaked through during his nightmares, and  _this_  has to be just a nightmare too, even though it’s so, so vivid.  
  
“Good to see you again,” she says. Her hand holding his chin feels cold even through his beard and she grips tight, forces him to look at her.  
  
He blinks. She is so close that even in the dim light he can see the sheen of wet on her skin, can smell something like mint on her breath. The man’s hand is still in his hair, and now the thumb moves very slightly against Bucky’s scalp as he steadies Bucky’s unsteady body. It’s so vivid, all of it, but then his dreams have been vivid ever since the start of the war that never ended. He doesn’t know if that is from being enhanced, or if dreams just always get more vivid once you start killing people. This is just—an escalation of that. It has to be.  
  
“Where is Rogers?” the woman asks. “We expected to find him here, as well.”  
  
It has to be a dream, because if it is real,  _if it’s real..._  
  
He must have said part of that last thought out loud, or maybe he had just winced, or done something else amusing, because there is another sudden burst of laughter.   
  
He looks up, moving his eyes first to the woman next to him and then the man above him with his hand in his hair, and then the man at the door who’s invisible behind the light he’s holding, and it’s like he is already  _switching back_ , trying to read exactly why they are laughing so he can work out how it affects him, whether he will be hurt or rewarded.   
  
And it’s—it’s tempting. In his dreams, at the beginning, he had always caved right away. After a while the dreams had changed, and in the new dreams Bucky would be fighting, sometimes for hours, sometimes for what felt like days. But by end of the dream he would always give in and do what they told him, whether it was hurting someone or killing them or just agreeing not to fight, and that was always when he would wake up, sweaty and wet with the covers kicked off the bed onto the floor and almost always alone.  
  
Maybe this is like one of those dreams. If he just stops fighting right now, he’ll—  
  
No. He won’t stop. Even if it makes the dream go longer, at least he’ll wake up knowing he fought, knowing that for most of the dream he was still himself. At least he’ll have that.   
  
Someone is speaking again, and he tries to focus. He thinks the woman has asked him another question, because now she looks at him expectantly. It doesn’t matter what the question was. He clenches his jaw as much as he can and does not answer.   
  
He expects punishment, but all that happens is that she looks up at the man holding his hair and says: “See what you can find.”  
  
The man lets go of his hair and steps away. Bucky sways, and the woman lets go of his face and puts her hand on his left shoulder, the other one on his right arm, steadying him. He has just enough balance to stay upright on his knees like this, but standing would be an impossibility. He doesn’t have the strength to even make a fist, so a crushing injury isn’t possible, and a punch in this state, even if he could coordinate it, wouldn’t do much more than get him into trouble. Even if he had a weapon within reach, he’s not sure his muscles are working enough to grasp and lift it.  
  
The man is over to one side now, near one of the little sets of shelves where Bucky keeps some of the stuff he’s collected, and he flinches now as he hears something fall to the floor with a crash. It has to be a dream, because this is almost worse than being naked in front of them; that’s  _his stuff_. He hadn’t had anything for such a long time, and it’s  _his_. He flinches, biting back a verbal protest. Luckily this time no one seems to see it.   
  
“Christ,” the man says after a minute. “Gotta admit, I expected a little more than this place.”  
  
“Why? He’s always been useless without us.” It's the man with the gun, this time.  
  
“Yeah, maybe,” the first man says. He picks something else up: Bucky doesn’t turn his head enough to look closely, because seeing what it is would be too painful. “But then you’d think he’d at least have done something about  _that._ ”   
  
Bucky looks over at him now, unable to help himself: the man is gesturing at his bare left shoulder. Bucky sets his jaw again and resists the urge to move, to do anything.  
  
“Well,”—the man with the gun again— “Maybe that’s why Rogers isn’t here.”  
  
“Nah, he’s always been fond of fucked-up people like that. Probably gets off on him being a cripple.”  
  
Bucky tries and fails to grind his teeth together harder. A small noise escapes his mouth.  
  
“Shush,” the woman says. He looks at her, but she actually seems to be talking to the two other men. She turns back to Bucky, and her face looks  _friendly_  as she says: “Are you feeling better enough to answer us now? Where’s your friend?”  
  
Bucky narrows his eyes and says nothing, and she raises her eyebrows like she’s humoring an angry child. “Come on, soldier. Don’t be like that.”  
  
He keeps silent and glares, the only sound his own breathing and the static-y rain on the roof, and then there's another loud crashing noise.   
  
The man has, apparently, gone back to exploring. “Holy shit,” he says, holding up one of the drones that Bucky had been taking apart the day before. “I think there’s vibranium in this.”  
  
“We’re not here for vibranium,” she says brusquely, not taking her eyes off Bucky's face. “We are here for Rogers and for our friend here.”   
  
“Fuckin’ waste,” says the man, but he puts the drone down.   
  
The woman shrugs, and her close gaze on him is almost painful now. “I think,” she says after a moment, “I think our friend doesn’t know where Rogers is, either.”  
  
Her voice is sweet with something like affectionate pity, and it’s a tone he is familiar with, although not for a long time now, not this strong. Something in his resolve fails, and she must see it, must notice as he can’t quite meet her eye, as his good shoulder and his mangled shoulder both move downward.   
  
Steve hasn’t been here in months.   
  
It’s not—it’s not because Steve doesn’t—he can’t be here all the time, he tries his best to be here whenever he can—but the woman is still looking at him like he’s a limping wounded animal who might need to be put down, and he wants to—he wants this awful dream to be over, he just wants to be back in his fucking  _bed_ , he wants to—  
  
He stops the thought, and swallows around the new tightness in his throat.  
  
“Guess he moved on?” she goes on, and Bucky swallows again because it’s suddenly overwhelming. Something heavy and awful is rising in his chest.   
  
Her tone changes, and a smile spreads over her face. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. There’s still  _plenty_  of us that still want you around. Even if Rogers doesn’t.”  
  
The heavy feeling morphs into something harsh, dark, urgent. Bucky can’t punch, and he can’t bite, but he  _can_  spit, and he does. It hits her right in her friendly smiling face.  
  
The woman does not hit him. She doesn’t even look angry. She just wipes her face with the back of her hand, stoic and almost cheerful, and then there’s sudden movement off to his side. Bucky is still slow, so slow, and the big man is there already and Bucky can’t stop the blow that snaps his head back and makes the room flash white, his body falling backward and hitting the edge of the bed before the man catches him by the hair again.   
  
 _It's so vivid_ , he thinks stupidly as the pain moves through him.  
  
He groans, tasting blood. The man is raising his fist again, a pale blur above him in the faint light.   
  
The woman says: “Wait.”   
  
The man stops.   
  
She had let go of Bucky when the man hit him; now she is close again, curling a hand around his upper arm again, gentle. “Don’t be too harsh with him,” she says: she is talking to the other man, even though she’s still looking at Bucky. “I think our friend has just… lost confidence in himself. He has forgotten how good he can be. Isn’t that right, soldier? You’ve forgotten that you can be good?”  
  
He looks at her, dazed and bleeding and unable to keep the confusion off his face.   
  
She glances up at the man, smiling brightly, and says: “Would you like to go first reminding him?”


	2. Chapter 2

The man doesn’t have to do much. He just smiles as he steps closer to where Bucky is kneeling on the floor, and Bucky  _recognizes_  that smile, even if he doesn’t recognize the face it’s attached to. Even with his mind still reeling from the punch he knows right away what is going to happen.

He has been lucky, he supposes. Until now, his nightmares have been long and involved and creative, but they have never been about  _this_. Never  _this_ , and the dumb surprise of it must show clearly on Bucky’s face: the man standing above him laughs, and so does the man who is standing with the gun at the door. 

Bucky has spent the last few years carefully destroying any thought related to this that creeps into his head, and right now that makes it so much worse: the memories hit his whole body, freezing like ice, and even if he were able to move freely right now he doesn’t know if he could make himself. He can only stare like a cornered animal as the man looks down at him, as the woman sitting at his side squeezes his good shoulder. Maybe it was inevitable that this would happen, that his dreams would fall and fall and get lower and lower until he got to—

“Okay,” the man says, “but can we like, cover his shoulder up? I’m not sure I can do this if I have to look at it.”

The voice breaks off his thoughts, and Bucky frowns up at him. The man is still smiling, but behind it there’s a shade of something that looks like genuine disgust. 

“For god’s sake, are you twelve?” the woman says. “Deal with it.”

“I’m just sayin’. It looks like a fucking horror movie.” To Bucky: “Seriously. Can’t take care of yourself at all without us, can you?”

Bucky holds his gaze, forcing himself not to flinch. It isn’t worse than what the man had said before, and it shouldn’t matter at all in the face of the awful fucking things that these people are about to do to him, but he is so frozen and brittle because he knows what is about to happen, and—he knows the shoulder looks bad. The serum means that his body keeps trying and failing to regrow around the arm: it has always been like that, but the HYDRA doctors used to cut away the extra bits of skin and flesh for him regularly, and of course they don’t do that anymore. Bucky had done it himself for a while, but now that he doesn’t see that many people anymore, he has slacked off. His arm is ugly,  _he_  is ugly, and the man’s posture as he stands over him, the casual contempt on his face, are both so  _familiar_  right now, and something inside Bucky  _itches_  to do something to make it better, to get that look off the man’s face, to—

He swallows it down. No. Fuck that. He won’t give in that quickly. Bucky can’t fight back physically right now, that much has been made clear, but he  _can_ refuse to actively participate. He can refuse to play along with this  _being good_  bullshit.

It’s not much, but Bucky would not have survived this long if he were not so good at living on scraps. 

He grits his teeth as hard as he can, which isn't much at all, and does nothing. The woman is saying something that he hasn’t bothered listening to. Her hand is steady on his arm.

The man appears to have overcome his disgust, because he reaches out to grab the side of Bucky’s face: the grip is so firm it reminds him of being pinched on the cheek as a child, back when his memories were still clear and in the right order. The man's hands are rough, the skin cool and dry. He turns Bucky’s head to one side, then back, like he’s testing if he can really control his movements, and even in the dim light Bucky can see the man’s eyes light up as he realizes that he can. The man’s face is weathered but unremarkable, and he has dark eyes, dark hair. He is frustratingly familiar, and right now he looks fucking delighted with himself. 

Bucky takes a steady breath in through his nose. He doesn’t have to do anything, just  _not participate_ , and he’ll still be able to face himself in a mirror when he wakes up. As much as he can ever face himself, anyway.

The man’s hand moves, and he pushes his thumb against Bucky’s lower lip, pressing in hard until the flesh on the inside of the lip is getting squeezed against his teeth. “You going to bite?” he says.

Bucky glares at him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. If he was able to bite, would he really tell this man about it in advance?

The lack of answer doesn’t seem to bother the man: he eases off the pressure of the thumb against Bucky’s lip, and pushes two fingers into Bucky’s mouth instead. 

Bucky feels his eyes close.

There had been a medical examination soon after he first arrived here, back when Steve was still with him. The doctor had been nice when she asked Bucky questions, very patient when he didn’t know most of the answers. Near the end, she had asked him if he had any artificial teeth, and Bucky had told her that he thought he might, but he couldn’t remember. An emotion had flashed on the doctor’s face, quickly hidden, and Steve had squeezed his good shoulder until it hurt.

She had asked Bucky to open his mouth after that, and her fingers had been slender and quick and she had worn gloves as she pressed around over his teeth and his gums, and Steve had been there and it had been okay, but—

_Not now_ , the man is doing it now, and his fingers are big and thick and the skin is bare and calloused and tastes of gun oil. His fingertips slide over Bucky’s teeth just like the doctor’s had, pressing along the ridges on the tops of his molars, and then back over his tongue, twisting up to stroke the roof of his mouth. 

“Nahh,” he says. He sounds almost contemplative, and he’s still smiling a bit when Bucky can’t stand the dark anymore and opens his eyes again. “You won’t bite.” 

“He’s going to try his hardest,” says the woman. She must have moved closer, because Bucky feels her breath near his ear. He keeps his breathing steady around the fingers still spearing his mouth. Nothing has been in his mouth like this, not since that doctor’s fingers. Because of course Steve hadn’t—Steve wouldn’t let him, even when Bucky had wanted to— 

That thought is too much, and the pained reaction to it must show on Bucky’s face: the man’s face turns cruel in a self-satisfied way as he withdraws his fingers, dragging them over Bucky’s lower lip on the way out. Bucky recognizes that expression, too: so many of HYDRA’s men wore that exact same look as they watched something in front of them recognize its own helplessness.

He tenses, and the woman’s grip on his arm tightens, pressing down until her short nails dig into his skin. In front of him, the man slides his leather belt out of its buckle, undoes it with a deliberately eager flourish. His teeth catch on his lower lip as he smiles, and Bucky’s breath stops in his throat, and he feels too light and too heavy at the same time. He can still taste blood in his mouth, still smell the rain in the air.

He swallows, makes himself look past the man and into the black that envelopes them beyond their little patch of light. The man’s big hand is on him again, this time curling around the back of his skull. He has pulled himself out with his other hand, and Bucky doesn’t look but he can see the steady movement. 

He just has to not participate. His hand is trembling a bit, a sudden shakiness that goes up his arm and down his spine like a weak electrical current, but they can’t see it, and it’s okay.

“Do you think those drugs are stopping his gag reflex?” the man asks. 

Nobody answers. Bucky makes himself keep looking past him at nothing. He can hear the rain outside over the skin-on-skin sound of the man stroking himself, over the sound of his own breathing. He just has to not participate, that’s all, he has to— 

“We’ll see, I suppose,” the man says, and the hand on the back of Bucky’s head clenches down on his hair, and then the man shoves himself inside with a movement that’s so sudden that Bucky makes a startled noise around the new dick in his mouth. 

Another eruption of laughter, one that he hears only faintly over the flood of terrible new sensations: the taste and bitter sweaty smell and the weight that forces open his jaw, the hand tight in his hair and pulling his head back at an angle that's like torture, the thickness that jabs in further until he gags, a loud, violent sound.

“Guess not,” the man says above him, and shrugs.

Bucky kneels, helpless and supported by two strangers’ hands, his throat spasming uselessly around the cock still forced inside, and then the man brings up the hand that’s not clutching his hair, worms it in between Bucky’s face and the soft skin of his own abdomen, and pinches Bucky’s nose shut. 

He fights; it does nothing. He can’t move. 

He won’t panic. He won’t panic even though he can’t move at all and he can’t breathe, even though the man can hold him like this for as long as he  _wants_ , even though he’s already struggling like a stabbed animal with his eyes wide and his throat still convulsing and he needs to—

The man pulls back, releases his nose. Bucky’s head falls forward onto the man’s still-clothed thigh. He sucks in air and makes an ugly retching sound. Spit comes out of his mouth and hits the floor next to the edge of the man’s boot. The liquid catches the light coming from the other man’s gun, silvery.

The world is fuzzy. There’s an odd pressure on his arm that he recognizes as the woman’s hand stroking his skin, back and forth. 

“Hm?” she asks, polite, friendly. “You feel like showing us you can be good now?”

He doesn’t answer. He isn’t sure he could speak even if he wanted to. The man is big. His throat already feels like a fist has gone down it.

The man is touching him again already, stroking his lips, a thumb dragging along his cheekbone. His fingers are still wet with Bucky’s spit from being inside his mouth, or maybe just with some of the spit he’d drooled out just now, he isn’t sure. He can’t tell, but now the man above him is already tilting his head back again.

Bucky makes a tiny, weak, unhappy sound that he doesn’t have time to hate himself for, because the man draws open his mouth and pushes himself inside again.

He can’t breathe. The man’s hand moves back to his nose, and  _this_  was why he had been so careful about checking that Bucky wouldn’t bite before; if he had the muscle control, Bucky would have clamped his jaw down now out of sheer panic. As it is, all he can do is writhe and choke. The man is barely thrusting, not enough to allow Bucky to suck in any air through his mouth between his movements. Instead he just holds himself there, choking him until the room darkens further and the blood is loud in his ears. In one burst of effort Bucky manages to wrench his arm forward, and he hits his open palm against the man’s thigh, digs his nails in as much as he can through the black fabric of his pants. The man barely seems to notice. It goes on and on, a rising wave of dark helpless panic.

It’s a dream, it’s a dream, but he can’t stop the thoughts that his brain vomits up as  _it doesn’t stop_. Bucky hasn’t—Steve hadn’t ever wanted to, not since he came back—Steve had wanted to protect him but he is not here he is not here  _why isn’t he here_

The man pulls back again, and Bucky gasps in a big sobbing breath.

The woman’s arm slides around his shoulders: he had been about to fall backwards and his weight is on her now, sagging. There are tears in his eyes, spilling cold down his cheeks.

“Shhh.” Her skin is still cool. “It’s okay. I know you’ve got it in you to be good. I believe in you.”

No. No no no. He won’t. He can’t breathe but he fucking won’t. He wants to be able to look at himself in the morning—

She pushes strands of hair away from his face where they’ve gotten stuck there with the sweat and drool, tucks them carefully behind his ears. “It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to be ashamed. You did so well already. You’ve been very brave.” She smiles, looking almost sad. “But, soldier—we all know how this ends.”

He shivers in her arms, and he hates himself. 

“It’s okay, shhh,” she says. “You don’t have to feel bad about it! We’re trying to help you. We’re all here for you, all right? It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. It’s not okay. They are going to take his breath again, and—

He is pulled from her arms, pulled back into the bigger hands of the man, and  _no no no_ , he can’t do it again, and this time the hand on his nose stays steady but the man tilts his head back  _further_  and thrusts deeper down his throat, not pulling out enough to let him catch air but jerking his hips just enough to worsen the panic, and it feels like something in his brain will burst, like a dam breaking, like stepping on the rotten corpse of an animal, and he just wants to wake up, he can’t… 

He yells something, somehow, muffled and broken around the flesh violating him, and the awful movement stops. 

The man withdraws from his throat with something like reluctance, dragging out another long slippery thread of drool. 

“Please,” Bucky croaks. He doesn’t even know who he’s talking to. His face is wet and the woman is there again, fingers moving through his damp hair as he breathes hard, drawing in beautiful precious air.

“It’s okay,” she says, and she wipes away the tears that have come out of his eyes from the choking. “It’s okay, you’re doing so good now.” She runs her cold hands over his shoulders. One hand moves over the remains of his left arm, and he shudders, twitching away.

“Hey,” she says. “Hey, no need for that. No need to act like that. The bad stuff’s already over.” Her words are familiar, sinking into his brain like fingernails, even if the voice speaking them is different, and it takes all of Bucky’s effort not to follow that trail of memory because things are  _already fucking bad enough right now_. 

“You're okay now, but you just have to show him,” she says. “Show us you can be good. You can do that, can’t you?”

He sniffs. He knows what she means, what she wants from him. He wishes he didn’t. 

She takes his chin in her hand so that he's forced to look at her, and he lets her. 

He  _tried_. He did. But he just wants to wake up. 

Bucky gives her a tiny nod, and she smiles. He drops his gaze so that he doesn’t have to see it. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

He keeps his eyes on the floor as the man above him settles his big hand back in Bucky’s hair, as the woman first makes sure he is steady and then loosens her grip. Bucky ignores the sick heaviness in his stomach, the dull grey feeling spreading in his brain. Ignores the pain in his knees from kneeling on the hard floor, the ache in his throat. He will wake up soon. He always wakes up in a dream after he gives in. He will wake up. He won’t be able to look at himself, maybe, but he will wake up, and it will be okay.   
  
“I gave you a break just now, soldier,” says the man above him. “Say thank you.”  
  
Bucky looks up, sees the smug smile spread across the man’s face. The man has one hand on his still-hard cock, grasping it near the base, expectant, and Bucky does what he hadn’t let himself do before: he reads what the man wants, exactly what he wants, so that Bucky can do it for him.   
  
It makes something inside him squirm, but he is good at this—he has had a lot of practice, after all. This man wants a visible sign of submission right now more than he wants actual pleasure or further violence, and Bucky will provide it. The man’s cock is in front of Bucky’s face, still shiny and wet from being all the way down his throat. Bucky leans forward, and kisses the tip of it.  
  
He looks up, careful, and the man looks pleased, and so Bucky kisses it again, gentle, keeping his eyes on the man’s face this time. He knows his eyes must look blank now, but the man doesn’t seem to mind: he growls out a little noise in his throat, his cock twitches, and his hand loosens and shifts in Bucky’s hair. Bucky keeps going, pressing soft kisses against the length of the man’s dick like it’s the most precious fucking thing he’s ever seen, and above him there’s a long satisfied moan, followed by a deep chuckle, and surely now he will wake up…  
  
But he is still here. Nothing happens except that the wind kicks up a little outside, scattering raindrops harder against the walls of the hut. The man’s fingertips are still against his scalp. He still has his face pressed close to a random man’s crotch.   
  
No. He gave in. He did what they wanted. Why is he still here?   
  
The disappointment barely has time to sink in: the man makes an impatient noise and grips down hard on Bucky’s hair, yanks him back until his mouth is level with the end of his cock again.   
  
Bucky still hasn’t woken up, so he opens his mouth, leans forward to take it into his mouth.   
  
The man reacts to this by jerking his hips back at the last second, so that Bucky’s lips close stupidly over nothing. There’s another burst of laughter.   
  
“So impatient,” someone says. It’s the man with the gun: he is still watching them from the door.   
  
The hand in Bucky’s hair moves, shaking in time with the man’s laughter. “Been too long. He’s fucking starving for it.” He grins down at Bucky, catching his breath through the chuckles. “You been lonely without us, soldier? You  _look_  lonely.”  
  
“Shush,” the woman says from nearby, and the man stops talking, but it doesn’t exactly help. Bucky’s face is hot, his palm and his underarm prickling with sweat. He licks his lips, swallows around his sore throat like that will make any of this go away. He wants to melt into the floor, he wants to rip his own hair out, wants to knock all of these people to the ground and  _run_ , but he can’t, and he is still not awake. And that means he has to keep giving this man what he wants, and what this man had wanted just now was to humiliate him.   
  
It shouldn’t be anything he isn’t used to. Worse has happened to him. It doesn’t matter that it’s happening to him  _now_ , in this new place where he had almost felt safe, because it’s not real. It’s not real.   
  
The man pulls on his hair again and when Bucky opens his mouth the man slowly, finally, feeds his cock back into his mouth. Bucky lets him.   
  
The man’s other hand does not go back to Bucky’s nose: instead he just touches him, stroking his face, fingers sliding through the drool that’s still wet on his cheeks and his beard. He doesn’t seem to have have any further interest in gagging him, either, and when Bucky moves to wrap his hand around the base of his cock so that he can control the movements, the man doesn’t stop him. Bucky can’t get much of a tight grip, but he doesn’t seem to mind. With Bucky’s muscles still too slack and not quite working right, he can provide a somewhat looser version of a normal blowjob: he keeps his hand in place and moves his head back and forth and back and forth and lets the man thrust against his soft palate.   
  
It’s not difficult, and that is what makes it almost worse: Bucky’s physical condition is so much better than it had been five minutes ago, and despite himself a part of him is  _grateful_  for that. That familiar feeling from before has returned, the old, scarred part of him that wants to make this good, not for the sake of ending this awfulness but because Bucky genuinely wants to please him. He can’t flee from that knowledge, and it sticks in him like a blade. He just wants to wake up.  
  
He doesn’t wake up. He doesn’t know why this dream is different. It must be some new type of stupidly vivid nightmare, some new, creative way for his brain to punish him, making everything go on and on even after Bucky has already given in. But it has to be a nightmare, it has to be, because otherwise he will not wake up from this, and— _it has to be_. It is some form of self-punishment, some internal hell, and Bucky just has to get to the end of it.  
  
The man pulls Bucky off him, eventually, right before he’s done, and Bucky does not flinch at the splatter that hits his face. He closes his eyes, but doesn’t turn away. There have been worse bodily fluids on him before, and clearly deep down nothing has changed, not at all. The man wrings more out with his hand, a low satisfied sound coming from his throat, and Bucky holds still. The semen is warm on his damp skin and when the man lets him go and Bucky’s head falls forward, some of it drips past his nose and onto the floor. The smell of it is familiar.  
  
He breathes. Cool fingers are moving on his good shoulder. He could make an effort to pull away, but he doesn’t.   
  
The rain outside is louder now; he can hear the low drum of it outside the doorway. There is movement above him, and the pale light in the room shakes as the rifle with the light attached to it is handed from one person to another. A moment later, the other man—the one from the door—steps in front of him.   
  
Bucky grimaces. Of course. Of course there is another one. Of course.   
  
This man has lighter hair, and is not as tall, but he wears the exact same smile as the other man had when he had first looked down at him. This one doesn’t want Bucky to prove himself with appreciation or kisses: he just undoes his pants with steady hands and goes straight to work.

He isn’t as big, at least, and he lets Bucky use his hand and doesn’t deliberately choke him or cut off his air, so it’s close to manageable. A new kind of dullness is creeping over him, the kind of drifting semi-consciousness that he had learned to summon during medical treatment, and during his occasional long sessions of alone time with HYDRA’s stricter higher-ups. He hates the old images that it brings up at the edges of his thoughts, but it’s better than staying where he is. The man’s hand is cupped over the back of Bucky’s neck; he mumbles on and on to himself about how good he feels. Bucky’s jaw aches; his lower lip feels like it’s split. It’s all blessedly far away.

But then the woman is speaking, her voice cutting in, ruining Bucky’s precious lack of focus. “I knew you could do it,” she says, close enough to touch and somehow not disturbed at all by what she is so close to, not disturbed at all by him open-mouthed and drooling around her colleague’s cock. “Look at how good you’re being, helping us out,” she says. “We missed you, soldier. We know you must have missed  _us_. I mean, look at you.”  
  
He twitches. He tries not to think. The sweat on his body is going cold in the night air.  
  
The man’s movements eventually get rougher, and he drives in deeper with a few final thrusts and holds Bucky’s head still as he comes, spilling himself down his throat. He makes a happy little satisfied sound as Bucky swallows.  
  
Then he’s done with him, and Bucky is shoved sideways onto the floor.

He swallows again, trying to chase away the bitter taste that’s still in his mouth, and resists the urge to curl up on his side as he hears the man doing his pants back up. He’s cold. 

The woman has her hands on him already then, sliding one arm under his shoulders. She shoots a disapproving glance up at the man who had pushed him. “You,” she says. “Get me a tissue or something.”  
  
He must find one, because there’s something dry touching Bucky’s cheek: she wipes at the smeared mess on his face and beard very carefully until he’s something close to clean. Bucky waits, unmoving, because the next step must be her taking her own turn. He doesn’t remember many specifics, but he knows that he has been used by female agents before, and that many of them were not gentle. Many of them found ways to make it hurt as much as the men did.   
  
But she doesn’t do that. Instead, she just keeps touching him.   
  
Bucky doesn’t move. There’s no use in fighting: he just has to wait for this to be over. He holds still, capitulating utterly as she strokes over his goosebumped skin, hand moving over his chest, the remains of his left arm, the back of his neck. Her fingers are too cold, but he doesn’t hate her touching him now, not now he’s realized that it’s all she’s going to do. Not hating it is a lot worse than hating it.   
  
When she finally pulls away he shivers at the new emptiness on his skin.  
  
“Go tell the others,” she says to the lighter-haired man. Then to Bucky: “Give us a shout when Rogers decides to visit, all right? We’ll be around.” She smiles as she says it, like she’s arranging a shared date. Then her expression changes, softens into the sweet pitying look that she had given him before. “If he  _does_  decide to visit.”  
  
Bucky doesn’t answer. He hears another person stepping closer, above him, and he closes his eyes, turns his head to the side so that some of his hair falls across his face, as if hiding like that could achieve anything.   
  
No one else touches him. Instead there’s a sudden sting, a sharp pain in his upper arm, and then everything gets dark, and then darker. It’s raining still, and the rain is all he hears.   
  
It’s over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to do a sequel to this one day & there will be Steve
> 
>  


End file.
